"Thank you. But, look... Can we stay here a little longer?" I ask, rubbing my cheek a bit too much.
The thought of being alone in his bedroom feels suddenly overwhelming, though not for the reasons it should be.
Jake settles back onto the couch, a questioning look in his brown eyes. "Of course. Is everything okay?"
No, nothing is okay. I'm sitting in a stranger's living room, having run away from my own wedding mere hours ago, and all I can think about is how his lips and mouth might taste. It's inappropriate and ridiculous and completely unlike me.
And yet, I can't stop noticing things about him.
The breadth of his shoulders beneath his worn t-shirt.
The strong line of his jaw, slightly shadowed with stubble.
The gentle way his hands move when he talks about his daughters.
The deep timbre of his voice that seems to resonate somewhere behind my ribcage.
He's nothing like Sebastian or any of the polished, ambitious men my parents approved of. Jake Reynolds is solid, rooted to this place and these people he protects. There's an authenticity to him that makes every man I've ever known seem like pale imitations of the real thing.
"I was just wondering..." I begin, then hesitate. Is this too personal? Too forward? But the events of today have stripped away my usual caution. "Have you dated at all? Since your wife passed?"
The question clearly surprises him. He leans back slightly, running a hand through his hair.
"Sorry," I say quickly. "That's none of my business."
"No, it's okay." He sighs, eyes fixed on the wall behind me. "The answer is yes, but not much. A few coffee dates set up by well-meaning friends. Dinner once with a kindergarten teacher from the next county over." He shrugs. "Nothing that went anywhere."
"No chemistry?" I ask, leaning forward slightly.
"Something like that." His gaze drops to his hands. "Or maybe I didn't give them a fair chance. It's hard to explain, but dating as a widower with kids... it's complicated. There's guilt involved."
"Guilt?"
"Like I'm betraying Claire somehow. Which is irrational.
She'd be the first one to tell me to move on, to find happiness again.
But still." He shakes his head. "And then there's the girls.
They're just starting to adjust, to feel stable again.
What if I bring someone into their lives and it doesn't work out?
That's another loss for them to process. "
His consideration for his daughters' emotional wellbeing only makes him more attractive to me. Sebastian saw children as an eventual necessity—heirs to continue the family name and business—not as actual people with feelings and needs.
"That's understandable," I say softly, shifting a little closer. "They're lucky to have a father who thinks so deeply about their happiness."
He glances up, a hint of surprise in his expression. "Most women I've met aren't exactly thrilled at the prospect of instant motherhood. It's a lot to ask."
"I think it depends on the children," I reply honestly. "And the father."
I feel my heart accelerating, my palms growing damp. I've never been good at this, the delicate dance of attraction and timing. My romantic history consists of men selected and vetted by my parents, relationships that developed through structured dates and social expectations.
This—this organic, unexpected connection—is entirely new territory.
I lean closer, hoping he'll bridge the gap between us. But Jake remains perfectly still, clearly confused. Is he oblivious to what I'm trying to communicate, or deliberately holding back?
My courage falters. Maybe I've misread everything. Maybe he's just being kind to a woman in crisis, and I'm projecting attraction where there is only compassion.
"You seem distracted," he says, his voice lower than before. "Everything okay?"
"I'm thinking," I admit.
"About what?"
About how your mouth would feel against mine. About how those strong hands would feel on my skin. About how long it's been since I felt genuinely desired rather than merely suitable.
"About regrets," I say instead, the word hanging between us. "About all the moments I let pass by because I was too afraid to act, too concerned with what others might think."
His eyes darken slightly. "And what are you afraid of now?"
I've spent my entire life waiting for permission—from my parents, from society, from the constructed rules that have governed my existence. Today, I finally broke free of those constraints. Why stop now?
Before I can overthink it, I lean forward and press my lips to his.
It's clumsy at first.
The angle isn't quite right, and I nearly miss his mouth entirely.
For one horrifying second, I think I've made a catastrophic mistake.
But then his hand comes up to cradle my cheek, calloused palm warm against my skin, and he guides me gently, correcting the trajectory until our mouths align perfectly.
The first real contact sends electricity coursing through me. His lips are surprisingly soft against mine, the contrast with the roughness of his hand making my skin tingle in the most delicious way. The kiss is gentle for only a moment before something seems to snap inside both of us.
Suddenly we're devouring each other, months—years—of loneliness and restraint evaporating in the heat between us. His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, holding me close as his mouth moves hungrily against mine.
I make a small, desperate sound in the back of my throat that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for embarrassment left. But all social conditioning has disappeared, replaced by pure, primal need. I want more. More contact, more pressure, more of him.
As if reading my mind, Jake's strong hands move to my waist, and in one fluid motion, he lifts me onto his lap. I find myself straddling him, my knees on either side of his hips, our bodies pressed together in a way that makes my head spin.
"Isabella," he breathes against my mouth, my name a question and a prayer.
"Yes," I answer, though he hasn't actually asked anything. Yes to whatever this is. Yes to wherever it leads.
His hands slide up my sides, respectful but hungry, as if he's rediscovering sensations long forgotten. I arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric of my green t-shirt.
When his tongue traces the seam of my lips, I open to him without hesitation. The taste of him—coffee and chocolate ice cream—floods my senses, making me dizzy with lust.
I press closer, my body acting on instinct rather than experience. Sebastian's kisses were always controlled, performative. This is raw, honest, consuming.
Jake's hands settle at my hips, his fingers flexing slightly as if he's restraining himself. Even in this moment of abandon, he's considerate, careful. It makes me want him more.
I slide my fingers into his hair, marveling at the texture—softer than it looks, with those threads of silver at the temples that caught my attention from the first moment. He groans when I tug gently, the sound vibrating through me, settling low in my belly.
This is madness. I've known this man less than twelve hours. I just ran away from my wedding to another man. I have no plan, no stability, nothing to offer but complications and baggage.
None of that matters when his mouth leaves mine to trace a burning path along my jaw, down the column of my throat. I tilt my head back, giving him better access, a soft gasp escaping me when he finds a particularly sensitive spot just below my ear.
"We should stop," he murmurs against my skin, even as his hands tighten on my hips, pulling me more firmly against him.
"Probably," I agree, making no move to pull away. Instead, I rock slightly against him, the friction drawing matching moans from both of us.
He pulls back enough to look at me, his pupils dilated, lips swollen from our kisses. The raw desire in his expression makes me feel powerful, desirable in a way I've never experienced before.
"This is crazy," he says, though his hands remain on my hips, thumbs drawing small circles that make it hard to concentrate.
"I know," I whisper. "But I've spent my whole life being sensible, doing what was expected. Look where that got me."
His expression softens, one hand leaving my hip to brush a strand of hair from my face with surprising tenderness. "You deserve better than to be someone's rebound, Isabella. And I haven't... it's been a long time for me."
"I'm not asking for promises," I tell him, pressing my palm against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid beat of his heart. "Just this moment. Just... feeling something real for once."
The conflict in his eyes is palpable—desire warring with responsibility, with caution. I understand it completely. This isn't just about the two of us. He has his daughters to consider, his position in this small community. I have a life in shambles, bridges burning behind me.
Logic dictates we should walk away now, before this goes any further. But logic has never made my heart race like this, never made my skin feel too tight, too hot, too sensitive to every whisper of air and touch.
"The girls," he says, regret coloring his voice. "They're right upstairs."
I start to move off his lap, embarrassment flooding me, but his hands tighten, holding me in place.
"Wait," he says. "I didn't mean... I just meant we need to be... discreet."
The implication sends a fresh wave of heat through me. "Oh."
His eyes search mine. "Unless you want to stop? We can, Isabella. No expectations. No pressure."
When was the last time someone genuinely cared what I wanted? Not what was appropriate or advantageous, but what I, Isabella Rosewood, actually desired?
"I don't want to stop," I admit, the honesty both terrifying and liberating. "But I don't want to make things complicated for you either."
He laughs softly, the sound warm and intimate in the quiet room. "Too late for that. You complicated things the moment you walked down Main Street in that wedding dress."
I smile, a weight lifting from my chest. "Sorry about that."
"Don't be." His hand comes up to cup my cheek again, his touch caring. "I'm not."
This time when our lips meet, it's slower, deeper, an exploration rather than an explosion. His hands slide under the hem of my shirt, rugged fingers against the sensitive skin of my lower back sending shivers up my spine.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs against my mouth. "So damn beautiful."
No one has ever called me beautiful like this—like it's a revelation, a discovery, rather than an expected compliment. Sebastian complimented my appearance the way one might admire an expensive painting with appreciation for its value rather than genuine awe.
Jake's admiration feels earned somehow, as if he's seeing past the surface to something essential in me. It makes me brave.
I reach for the hem of my shirt, ready to pull it over my head, but his hands gently catch mine.
"Not here," he says, his voice husky. "Not like this."
For a moment I'm confused, hurt even, until he clarifies.
"If we're doing this," he continues, "I want to do it right. In a bed. With time to..." He trails off, color rising in his cheeks.
"Time to what?" I press, suddenly needing to hear him say it.
"Time to learn you. Every inch." The promise in those words makes my pussy throb, juices trickling down to my panties.
He stands, lifting me with him. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms looping around his neck for balance. The display of strength sends a fresh pulse of desire through me.
"Upstairs?" I whisper against his ear, feeling him shudder in response.
He nods, adjusting his grip. "If you're sure."
"I'm sure," I tell him, and in this moment, it's the truest thing I've ever said.
Jake carries me toward the stairs, his steps deliberate and quiet. As we pass the grandfather clock in the hallway, I glance at the time—just past midnight. Yesterday at this hour, I was lying awake in my childhood bedroom, dreading the morning and the wedding that awaited me.
Now I'm in the arms of a man I barely know, my heart pounding with anticipation rather than dread, my body alive rather than numb with resignation.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel present in my own life. Not going through the motions, not playing a role, but fully, vibrantly here. Whatever happens now, whatever complications await ahead, this moment is real. And it's mine to claim.